


To Match Wits

by didyoulikequestion10moony



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:45:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didyoulikequestion10moony/pseuds/didyoulikequestion10moony
Summary: The war isn't over, it has just taken a different form. It is difficult for Auror Granger to hunt down the Death Eaters and protect a Muggle man who salivates at the sight of danger. Eventual Sherlock x Hermione. Warning: Mentions of PTSD, Self-Harm.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

It had happened again. It was 2nd May 2004, an insignificant date for most, but not for Sherlock. Each time it happened, people questioned it but gave up as they moved ahead to mundane tasks of their boring lives. Sherlock had been recording the events of this date every year since 2000 and there was an undeniable pattern- a change in fashion trends, an unusual display of fireworks, smiles of celebration. He couldn't decipher the cause. In his research of every cultural group residing in the country, he'd come up with absolutely no information to quell the mystery.

He sighed at the sight of a peaceful neighborhood and resigned to his armchair, closing his eyes to investigate the file in his head he had allowed for this specific date. The information he'd gathered since midnight flitted by for his scrutiny.

"...Potter didn't even attend," said a man in a large cloak, too warm for this weather.

"They say he got married in secret at the Burrow on-" another man in similar garments replied as Sherlock ran past in pursuit of a criminal.

Potter. It was one of the constants on all 02/05. He'd raked through his database for anyone named Potter, but none of them were relevant enough for consideration. He'd been referred to as 'the boy who lived' a few times, so he guessed that this Potter was young.

Another constant- cloaks. These peculiar behaviors were exhibited by people in those garments. Few dressed normally did too, but none of the cloaked ones seemed to fit in with society.

Must be a cult, he decided. It seemed quite obvious, and Sherlock felt shame course through him for not having arrived at the conclusion earlier. Mycroft smirked at him before being pushed back inside another room of Sherlock's mind palace. With a determined expression, the young man put on his overcoat and walked out of his flat with a determined look.

Once in a cab, he flipped his phone open and punched in a series of numbers to call Tony, a teenager who frequently hacked governments for nothing other than a boost for his ego. Whoever Harry Potter was definitely would have a mobile phone.

They'd narrowed down the long list of Harry Potters to just twelve. There were quite a number of children named Harry Potter, but with Potter as a middle name instead of last. The trend in naming children Harry Potter escalated dramatically in 1981, but only towards the end of the year and more recently in 1998. Must be a famous one, this Harry, he decided. Initially, he thought he could be some pop star but eliminated the thought because Tony, a fucking teenager, didn't seem to recognize him. It frustrated him to find so much data, but not much information.

His frown turned up into a subtle smirk when he spotted one of the Harrys. He was twenty-four. It was very unusual. The address was fake. On collecting data about his phone signals from the past, he found a peculiar detail. The device couldn't be tracked at specific locations, seemed to disappear only to reappear later in the same spot in which it was last detected.

All the data reeled in his mind uselessly, and he could come up with no conclusion other than SPY. But, a spy wouldn't be famous. That would defeat the purpose. Deciding he wouldn't get anything much from being indoors, he left with his file- yes, a fucking file- to the spot where Harry Potter should be. It was the only case with a physical file. For some reason, Sherlock's past memories about this particular date have been hazy. Like they were wiped, but not completely. Mycroft once again reappeared in his mind to taunt his apparently weak memory and he ignored him once again.

Seven kilometers later, he was stood near a line of houses, right in front of a wall which is the exact geographical location he came for, according to his phone. It was another dead end. It was supposed to be a place beyond which he wouldn't be able to receive calls because of a jammer of sorts. Clearly, he was wrong because John Watson was calling him as he instructed him to at this time and Tony just texted that he could still track his phone.

"Are you on that case again?" Came the annoyed voice of his roommate. He didn't reply. He didn't know why he ever bothered picking up. John was weirdly against him taking this case.

"You have a client here with a case that's at least a six on your crazy scale."

"I remember telling you quite clearly to refrain from disturbing me for anything less than an eight."

"Sherlock, we have no money and need to pay this thing called rent if we have to continue living here. Mrs. Hudson said she'll begin loo-"

John's voice drowned in the background when he heard the door to Number 13 open. He disconnected the call, pocketed his phone, and sent a dazzling smile in the old woman's way.

"Good evening, Ma'am. I'm looking for a Mister Harry Potter. Do you know where I could-"

Before Sherlock could complete his sentence, the woman suddenly fumed with anger, took a few steps ahead and slammed her walking stick against the ground. "I am so done with you cloaked idiots looking for that Harry Potter every day. For the millionth time, I don't know that bastard and if I have to say it again, I swear to God!"

Nothing again, of course. Maybe he should stop following the Harry Potter lead and take up a different one. Privet Drive, Surrey, was reported to have high activity of cloaked people staring at a house swarmed by angry owls. He didn't pay it much attention last year, but it piqued his curiosity by occurring on the same date again.

Cloaked people should appear here as well, considering their presence in the 02/05 areas. Just like he thought, a man clad in a cloak appeared. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Few visible injuries of a violent nature. No visible bullet wound, though. Tortured, perhaps? Bald, but not due to age. Held a position of power, surely. Poised. so, he was from high society.

"Hello, sir. I'm looking for an old friend of mine- Harry. A mutual friend gave me this address," he said, pulling out a scrap of paper with the name of the street on it, but not the door number. He had torn a part of the paper to make it look like there was once a number there.

"Do you happen to know him?"

The man smiled at Sherlock and said, "Yes, of course. And you are?"

He was hiding something. He was good, this man. He could easily hide from ordinary people, but not him. His smile was fake, not far from one of those his brother sent to diplomatic rivals before he rewrote their lives. Sherlock dug deeper in his pocket to check whether his gun was where he kept it. Fear. He didn't have to check it twice, he knew it was there by the weight of his jacket, but his body didn't listen. He was scared, he realized.

"John," he said, opting for a plain name instead of his own memorable one. He almost never used false names, but this was different in every way. His usual norms didn't apply. He had a file for fuck's sake!

"May I know why exactly you're looking for him? I could convey a message."

Sherlock's eyes go blank immediately and he felt a tingle at the back of his head which quickly spread all over his body. His eyes closed for a second and when he opened them, he was stood all alone in the road. In his hands was a file with newspaper clippings of the most bizarre cases ranging from mid-1997 until a few days ago.

There were wet footprints in front of him and their owner had walked towards him from nowhere and disappeared after halting in front of him. Why would anyone deliberately wet their shoes only to take 30 steps and take them off for the rest of their journey? One could argue that the owner could've gotten into a cab, but the angle didn't suggest otherwise.

The man was obviously obscenely rich, seeing that the prints matched none of those Sherlock had stored in his mind and he had a wide collection. Custom made shoes.

Sherlock's situation had the same intriguing quality of those on his file.

As he stood at the beginning of the footprint trail in an alley, he was unprepared for the scene that would play out in front of him. Two men, clad in tattered cloaks appeared out of thin air. Just like the owner of the footprints, he presumed. They smirked at each other at the sight of him.

"Look, Avery! A little snack before our feast," he cackled, lifting a carefully designed wooden stick as though it were a weapon. His comrade did the same.

Sherlock pulled out his gun in lightning speed and removed the safety before pointing it at the two men.

"And it's got a little toy. How adorable!" He cooed while his partner chuckled. Both tall with matching tattoos, wearing similar clothes, shoes from an unrecognizable source, wielding a mysterious weapon. Cult? Secret society? He had an extensive knowledge of both and the features matched none of the groups he knew.

Another figure appeared behind the men and lifted an identical weapon, yelling 'stupefy'. The man in the left froze immediately and fell with a thud, alerting the other who immediately turned back to fight the woman.

Fear was written all over his face, his arm displayed a slight tremor, but he took a stance to defend himself from the attacker.

"Filthy mudblood-"

"Silencio," She said, waving her weapon in a peculiar fashion, causing her opponent to go mute, his lips still moving. A jet of green light shot out of his stick and met an identical green light from the woman's stick.

Neither party seemed to make any progress in the bizarre duel, so Sherlock shot the man's ankle, giving her the slight edge she needed to force the man to the ground.

"Thank you for that," she said, smiling.

"Episkey," she whispered, her weapon removing the bullet and repairing the damage he'd caused with his gun.

"Are you okay?" She asked, but Sherlock remained too stunned to respond. She was in her early 20s, visiting friends by her casual attire, no cloaks like the other suspicious people in his file recently broke up with her boyfriend, has a pet ginger cat-

She lifted the weapon she'd just used to attack and heal and did something that couldn't be classified under either.

"I'm sorry."


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken some liberties with the storyline and changed some canon things from the original books and television series. As this is far back in time, Sherlock's dynamics with those around him are slightly different and they're all new to his life, unlike the time we get to meet him on the show. Hermione has changed since we last saw her in the Deathly Hallows. In my version, Hermione is 24 years old and Sherlock is just a year younger. DI Lestrade is new to his job and younger and so is Molly Hooper. John is a surgical resident.

**Chapter 1**

The Inspector gulped at the sight of ID card and let him in quickly. Sherlock wandered into the property, noting all relevant details that matched with the others it succeeded. He was told the victim was well known- a singer in a popular band. The Internet had nothing but his name plastered all over it, with fans of his work sharing words about the mark his music had left on the world. He didn't know why he took their words seriously and played a few songs of his on his way to the crime scene. They were all stereotypical songs about women and love. Repetitive and bland.

"How did you even get in here?" Asked Inspector Lestrade as he spotted him studying the building.

"Where is it?" He asked, ignoring the man's question.

"Second floor. Media room." The Inspector led the Consulting Detective upstairs and proceeded to reluctantly explain the case to him. Sherlock was glad someone was smart enough to understand that they needed him to pick up on clues they'd never notice. He was still hesitant at times, of course, but he protested less as time progressed and almost readily let him in his cases.

They finally stopped by a dead Henry Ancherton who looked like he was just sleeping. His eyes and mouth were wide open as though shocked. He didn't expect the intruder. There should've been a sign of a break-in, but if he knew anything about these killings, he was sure there wasn't any. One window was open, but it was too small for a person to fit into and the grass underneath looked undisturbed. It was impossible for one to get in through the window even if the murderer was capable of climbing two stories without the aid of any equipment.

"He probably knew the killer," said Lestrade as he stood awkwardly, awaiting the man's words.

Sherlock stood up straight with his hands behind his back. His deliberate choice of grey formal shirt and expensive Belstaff coat made him appear as though he were older than the 23 he actually was. His boyish face, however, betrayed the rest of his look. The corner of his lips quirked up and he sighed condescendingly. "No, he didn't."

"He let the killer in willingly. There are no signs of struggle." His eyes were focused intently on Sherlock, waiting for him to begin spouting observations punctuated with insults directed at him and his team.

"Look at his face, he was surprised. So surprised, he dropped his glass," he said as he took a few steps in the room and stopped by broken shards of glass. He knelt by it and took photographs with his phone and then used a small magnifying glass to study it. It looked pretty irregular.

"Then how do you suggest the killer entered?"

"Haven't the faintest. There's a new resident Dr. Hooper at St. Bart's. Have her examine the body." She was the only one there who let him watch her work even though he'd been nothing but unkind to her.

"We can't make specific requests," he protested.

"Yes, you can. She's smarter than the rest of the empty skulled creatures appointed there. If you want answers, do as I say." He then bent down and picked the shards of glass carefully and bagged them in one if the plastic evidence bags he carried with him in his coat. Lestrade protested that his boss would have his head if he knew some private eye took evidence from a crime scene, but Sherlock ignored him.

Sherlock begrudgingly walked to the nearest bus stop, annoyed that he couldn't take a cab as he preferred. He'd spent days on the mysterious murder cases, leaving him no time for cases he could solve and as a result, he had very little money at his disposal. He'd already set aside the rent amount as John had already made his contribution. He needed to give a fifty to one of his informants from his carefully guilty homeless network.

After a short trip on the bus, he met with Alana and handed her the fifty. Just as he'd expected, she'd been by the street last night when Ancherton was murdered. According to her, the victim had returned home in his car a few minutes after midnight but there was nobody with him. Everything was quiet, and suddenly there was an extremely bright green light pouring through every window of the house. It was so bright, she had to physically cover her eyes rather than just closing them. There was then a swooshing noise and then nothing.

It matched almost completely with Billy's account of the last murder in the case. Except, he reported seeing a man in a large coat through the window. Alana couldn't have seen the murderer as he killed Ancherton in a room that faced the backyard.

When he received information from St. Bart's about the corpse, he took another bus hoping that he'd be able to get some useful evidence from it.

* * *

 

Spells and curses flew left and right, all of them being deflected to the walls that took the hit instead of the witch they aimed to attack. The walls would hold up for another seven days before the incantations had to be reinforced. The only light in the room was the jets of light from the wands, creating shadows of the witches and wizards trying hard to take down their common opponent.

"Bombarda!" Cried a wizard, his wand pointed at the witch, denting the strong protective layer she'd created around herself.

"Good one, Evan!" She exclaimed as she casually deflected a rather angry looking spell. It seemed she'd done it too many times to count, in her life.

She looked at home, comfortable and unperturbed by the array of spells that were sent her way and she didn't even have to use her wand most of the time. Her movements were quite straightforward and simple. Her instincts were so good she didn't have to look up to know who'd fire what spell next.

Her next spell came unexpectedly with no words uttered, taking those around her by surprise. Non-verbal spells were a rarity, but that didn't mean she shouldn't prepare her students for them. She doubted they would ever learn, but it didn't hurt to try. The better prepared they were, the easier it would be to get the Death Eaters.

"Not fair, 'Mione!" Exclaimed a familiar voice, nursing his wounded arm as he leaned on the curved walls.

"Neither are the Death Eaters, Dennis," she said, taking down all seven of them with just one spell. She flicked her wand at the door, opening it for the healers they had in the training halls just in case the situation got out of hand. They mostly had the opportunity to just patch up minor cuts and vanish bloodstains.

Once they were done, Hermione proceeded with her routine of giving feedback. The pupils lined up in front of her, hands joined behind their backs in accordance with an archaic rule that was still followed for some reason.

Hermione Granger mimicked their posture but paced back and forth in front of them rather than staying put. Her wand was still in her grip, ready to attack at any time. Constant vigilance was drilled into her head, of course. "It seems most of you took my last review as a challenge when I asked if you could get any worse. I've seen no improvement in anyone's technique other than you, McGowan. You can leave," she said, stopping in front of him. He was the only one who managed to make any successful attack. The proud student stifled a victorious smile and stepped back and she began pacing once again, paying no notice to the departed man.

"You, Anders, still can't hold a wand properly. Make no progress next time and you're out of the program," she scolded, making him gulp. He followed his classmate out the door with no specific instruction from her. The thud that always followed when Anders closed the door was absent this time, prompting her to look up.

At the door was Harry, looking around the room in amusement at the way his friend had been training the apprentices and thanking Merlin that he didn't have to go through her to get his job.

"Kingsley wants to meet you," he said, all traces of the emotion vanishing from his face. Hermione deduced that it must be a matter of importance for Kingsley to summon her immediately instead of providing a later date to meet up with him.

She sighed and turned her attention back to her students and began a quick review rather than a stretched out episode. They should know the mistakes they've made by now. If they didn't, the job was going to be more inconvenient that she would tolerate.

Hermione looked pointedly at one of them and said, "Poor incantations, better wand movements, just the opposite from the last time. Hope you don't fuck up both the next time." When he left, she continued, "You three, you've shown no improvements whatsoever but I'm grateful you haven't gotten worse. And  _you_  should find a new career path." The trainee's face fell immediately, but she didn't heed him as she rushed to the large oak doors with her robes dramatically swishing behind her.

If she was right about the reason she was summoned, she was right to be angry. She wasn't a rule following good girl like the ministry had hoped she'd be. The war had changed nothing and having one Kingsley Shacklebolt to speak for her kind wasn't enough to create social reform.

They had murders coming out of their ears and their attempts at covering them up had started failing. No doubt they wanted the boy who lived and his friends to clean up their bloody hands and portray themselves to be innocent. She counted to fifty in her head to simmer her anger, she couldn't lose the influence she had in the ministry by lashing out unnecessarily.

"Those poor things! You could be kinder, you know?" Harry said as they passed by a pair of trainees consoling each other in the corridor.

"Well, I tried kind and they still insist on being useless," she sighed, pocketing her wand. "Besides, the murderous death eaters aren't going to be very kind when they have Aurors at the tip of their wands, I'm sure you're aware."

"Not going to interfere with your teaching," Harry resigned, raising his arms in mock surrender. They got into the lift and pressed the button to the first floor and proceeded to go down the building.

"It's the case, isn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"I read the muggle papers, Harry. The Daily Prophet may deem it too unimportant to report, but such deaths cause alarm in the outside world. It was a singer this time, they're definitely trying to send a message."

"Famous muggles?" His question was punctuated with a ding of the elevator, announcing they've reached their destination. A shy intern smiled at them nervously, but the pair of friends ignored him as they hurried to the Minister's office.

"Of course. It is aimed at creating fear of a higher magnitude. If actors, intellects, and government officials who have all the resources to afford bodyguards and expensive security systems cannot protect themselves, how are common people supposed to be at peace with their own safety? The message they want to send us is that even the best of muggles are too weak to escape them."

They came to a halt outside a door with 'Minister of Magic' engraved into the wood and filled with gold. Their current minister found it gaudy, but it wasn't up to him to make the decision to eliminate it for something much simpler. Not that he didn't try. The senior Aurors stood outside the door to protect the minister nodded at his former students and let them inside.

"Minister Shacklebolt," she said, nodding at the tired man sat behind his desk. The man who usually appeared majestic looked dejected. Despite her anger, Hermione found a bit of sympathy for him. It was quite tough to handle such responsibilities, especially after a war. It wasn't easy to hold his position when he had a bunch of old witches and wizards with their old ideals nagging him whenever he so much as smiled at a muggleborn. He could ask them to fuck off as their support was needed for him to do anything of value for the people.

"Hermione, I've told you to call me Kingsley," he said, rising and gesturing the young Aurors to take their seats in front of him. The office had certainly undergone a great transformation in whom they let inside. Even representatives of the commoners were allowed to approach the Minister, these days.

Once they were all comfortably seated, he said, "I think you know why I've asked for the two of you to meet me, Harry, Hermione."

"Henry Ancherton?" Harry asked, referring to the most recent murder in the case he'd just discussed with Hermione of the way.

"Yes, and also Sherlock Holmes." This time, his eyes settled on the witch, his eyes insinuating he knew something.

Her heart sunk. Not another one. She'd read great things about him in the newspaper, about his deductions and his intellectual prowess. The country needed him. "Is he the most recent one, now? I'd been gone for three hours for training my students and they've taken down another innocent man?"

"No, no, no, no, Miss Granger. He is doing quite well, I'm sure you took care of his threat for him," he said calmly, but the change in his voice didn't go unnoticed by the witch. She also noticed the shift from her first name to her last. They were going to have the argument again.

"But for how long, Minister? He's clearly the new target and if we aren't careful, he'd be dead, too. I can't always accidentally find and save him, can I?" She said, referring to the incident just the day before yesterday when she saved him from two death eaters. She'd captured them, of course, but they had no useful information on the rest of their group.

"What are you talking about? Who's this Sherlock Holmes?" Harry asked, completely clueless about this person both his friend and mentor seemed to know.

"You realize he's a dangerous man, don't you?" Hermione almost flinched at his words.

"So, you suggest that we allow for his murder to take place? Just for our convenience?" She scrunched up her face in disgust, shifting in her chair to sit on the edge.

"He has come close to discovering us, this time. We had to do it, you did the same and it wasn't just to Mister Holmes as I understand," he said with a hint of a smirk on his usually stoic face. Hermione quickly raised to her feet. How dare he?

"What I did was just once and it has been proven to have no adverse effects on the recipients when it's done only once. Now, Mister Holmes is luckily of superior intellect and bounces back from the attack on his mind each year, but how long are you planning to do this, minister? One more time and he'd be as good as dead." Her previous composure had threatened to vanish at his provocation, but she managed to keep it at bay.

"Take up the job, then," he said with a shrug. "You have so many suggestions on how we should do our jobs, so why don't you go ahead and do it instead?"

Harry's confusion had finally cleared up at the Minister's rude job offer. The ministry had been trying to recruit Hermione for jobs in the field. She'd withdrawn from fieldwork when her condition got worse, but of course, wizards understood nothing about mental health. Muggles rarely ever did.

"You know why I can't, Minister Shack-"

His tone suddenly changed from a friend who fought a war on her side to Minister of Magic whose words must be obeyed. "It is an order, Miss Granger. Your parents-"

She cut him off before he could complete his sentence and lose the remaining respect she had for him, "That's emotional blackmail, not an order. Deceiving doesn't work on me, sir." Harry couldn't fathom how Hermione was able to say those words with such composure. They'd grown so much since Hogwarts, since the war.

"I presume I can make arrangements for your mission now?" He asked, calmer than before.

"Does my will even matter?" The man gulped and looked anywhere except Hermione's face.

His answer was clear in his silence.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Hermione Granger staggered across the marble floors, pushing past the witches and wizards who stood idly in the middle of the corridor with no regard to those who had to get to places. Her best set of robes swished behind her dramatically as she hurried to her destination, looking at the time on her watch every few seconds and muttering a curse as though the actions would somehow affect the progression of time.

She was slightly disappointed with herself when she reached her destination and Harry of all people had arrived before her. It was most certainly because her best friend had come completely unprepared while she had spent hours 'borrowing' files and analyzing the case from the Auror's Headquarters. While she had her own notes in her arms (because her fellow Aurors were too incompetent to write adequate reports of the cases), Harry had a poorly baked muffin. The corner of his lips had been recently wiped to get rid of the icing. It wasn't the first one of the day, then.

"Harry, hey!" She greeted breathlessly as though she just run a marathon.

"Wow, you're seventy seconds late. I was about to send Aurors to look for you," he joked, slouching against the glossy walls. Hermione rolled her eyes at him and snatched his half-eaten muffin, earning a squeal from him. She paid it no attention, shoving her files in his arms.

Do not judge a book by its cover, reinstated the ugly muffin that almost earned a moan from her. It was good. Harry flipped through her pages of research, muffin long forgotten.

She lifted her wrist to know the time again and sighed when she realized that nobody had arrived yet except herself and Harry. Richard Granger had once told his daughter that if he'd had magic, he'd never be late for an appointment. Hermione snorted at the thought. Wizards had access to a crazy bus that took you places in minutes, brooms you could fly, fireplaces to transport you to other fireplaces, tele-fucking-portation, and portkeys for scheduled travels and still preferred to be late.

"You've basically planned the whole thing, Hermione."

"If I don't, people would come up with stupid plans of their own and being their subordinate, I'll have to execute them."

"Don't let Kingsley hear you say that," he whispered. They were used to whispering their conversations by now, constantly aware of eavesdropping ears that would report anything that they discussed.

"What could he possibly do? Fire me? I would be glad," she grumbled before vanishing the paper lining of the muffin that was currently being disintegrated into microscopic pieces.

The two friends waited for long at the corridor, discussing in length about the case in hand and the victims it had churned out at record speed. Curious glances were sent their way both from ministry workers like them and visitors. The general consensus among the wizarding public was that whenever part of the "golden trio" was seen together, they were up to something that would save the world. It hindered their work sometimes, but Ron always managed to make light of the situation. No words were said, but both Harry and Hermione wished their friend was with them rather than managing the joke shop his older brother had co-founded before his death.

After what felt like hours of being gawked at like animals in a zoo, they were put out of their misery by the arrival of the Wizards they were to meet.

The conference hall could make the richest people gasp at its appearance. Hermione's brain, with its extensive research on buildings, could identify the incorporation of different styles of architecture from different eras, different parts of the world, from both the muggle and magical world. The double height ceiling with clerestory windows above screamed South Indian, and the murals on the walls were Egyptian. The windows had a rather modern frame, handles, but the stain on the glass was Art Nouveau. There was a large portrait of Merlin, evidently from the 1600s if one bothered to notice the art style. Just opposite was a fucking Monalisa that looked exactly like the original. Hermione's eyes widened at the prospect that it could be the original. It wouldn't have taken much to duplicate the painting and loot the original from the muggle museum.

There was a large rectangular mahogany table at which the twelve people sat. It was, of course, mostly rich white pureblood members from the Wizengamot, leaving the young Aurors and the minister the odd ones of the group. Hermione didn't realize that the matter was serious enough to get them involved. This wasn't even part of their functions. She turned to Harry who sat at her left and he widened his eyes before looking around and bringing them back to her, showing that he was also shocked by the situation.

"Auror, I was informed you were working on the case of the murders of muggles by death eaters," the oldest man of the group acknowledged, his eyes resting on a confused Harry who'd never had a plan in his life. Hermione was pretty sure he didn't even know how to spell the word.

"That would be my partner here, actually," he said, turning to an unimpressed Hermione who looked normal to everyone but him. This wasn't the first time he'd seen her unimpressed- he'd been the recipient of it several times.

Behind him, Bones rolled her eyes at her colleague's behaviour. Hermione couldn't discern whether his dismissal of her was due to sexism or blood supremacy.

"The numbers have climbed up to seven in just two weeks' time. What do you plan on doing, Auror..." he trailed, struggling to recall her name that he'd never bothered to learn.

"Granger. Whoever our killers are-"

"Killers? You mean there's more than one?" He asked skeptically, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.

"Yes. The inspection of the victims' corpses revealed traces of different cores- Veela Hair, unicorn hair, even-"

"One wizard could have more than one wand," he punctuated his sentence with an exasperated sigh and narrowed his eyes at her. It was at that point that the Auror slightly lost her cool.

"Of which I'm perfectly aware, but my extensive knowledge of wandlore states that a wizard cannot be the owner of two wands if one of them has a core of Veela Hair. Do I have your permission to complete a sentence, sir?" She counted to ten in her head so that she would keep her trap shut instead of going off on the man. Her goal was to get the plan approved, not to call his intelligence into question. She focused her mind on the goal and away from her anger.

The man only nodded slightly and Hermione continued with her analysis of the common pattern found in all seven murders. The Wizengamot officials reduced the frequency of patronizing the witch and despite it not being the ideal level of patronization- which was zero- she continued with the case, even projecting a map of the country from her wand, spots of suspected Death Eater activity highlighting themselves as she spoke of them. She'd classified them into locations of high, moderate, and low activity, effectively giving them an idea about the potential victims.

"One of them is William Sherlock Scott Holmes or as he introduces himself- Sherlock Holmes. Born on 6th January 1981. Shares rent with a surgical intern training at St. Bartholomew's. Has a degree in Chemistry- a muggle counterpart of Potions- which he doesn't use in seeking a job. He's something of a private investigator with no license. People who've lost hope in the law enforcement approach him with cases which he solves at a staggering speed. His roommate, the intern John Watson helps him not just in advertising Mr. Holmes by narrating his cases on his blog, but also accompanying him on said cases," concluded Hermione.

"On what grounds do you believe Mr. Holmes would be attacked next?"

"On the grounds that I myself saved him once from two Death Eaters on the anniversary of Riddle's demise," she deadpanned. Holmes was in danger not just because of his growing fame, but also because of his involvement in investigating the existence of the wizarding world. If she told them about his curiosity and how the Minister himself had set up wizards to erase his memory too many times for the sake of the Statute of Secrecy, they'd harm the man in their panicked state.

"And your plan?" He raised an eyebrow in question.

"I have identified, as I explained before, six potential victims. My plan requires a team of minimum five Aurors stationed around the six muggles. One of them could watch over both Rutherford and Jackson since they live in the same neighborhood, but it would be ideal if we could have an Auror for each.

"Now, I have chosen these locations," she said before certain locations on the map lit up red.

Hermione made sure to speak as quickly as her lips could move to match her mind. Every now and then, she threw in a couple of muggle words to make the situation seem more complicated than it actually was. The more confused she could render them, the easier it would be to get her plan through. They'd be too embarrassed to question her in the fear of appearing stupid and then she'd have complete control over this case.

Just as she'd expected, her plans were approved by the Wizengamot with a few questions they sent her way just to establish that they still had control.

* * *

In Baker Street, Sherlock was slouched on his chair as one client after another poured in and out of his living room. He'd dismissed all of them before John reminded him of their empty wallets and a due rent cheque. He'd solved (if you could even call it that when the answers practically danced naked in front of him) a couple of cases quickly while grumbling about his roommate.

"Yes, he's cheating on you," he deadpanned after glancing at the couple for no longer than five seconds.

"But I didn't even ask-"

"I know what your question was," he rolled his eyes before turning to the man's boyfriend.

"Waterproof phone that you don't need for work. You're a teacher, obviously. Traces of chalk in your fingernails. You text him in the shower because you live with your boyfriend and don't want him to find out. Bags under your eyes. Staying up late for your affair. You might want to get tested before having sex with your boyfriend because syphilis is written all over you. Leave the fee with Dr. Watson and run before you bore me to actual death," he spat before he got off his seat and hurried to the kitchen. The two men quietly did as they were told and resumed their argument that they'd paused to consult the detective.

"Send the others away, John. We have enough for rent," he said before opening his refrigerator. His lips curled up to form the brightest smile at the sight of the eyeballs he'd managed to procure from the new pathologist at St. Bart's. Accompanying John to the hospital wasn't a disappointment after all.

The doctor spoke in the background, but his voice had been muted by the man who looked like it was Christmas and his presents were in the freezer in front of him.

Receiving no reply from his eccentric roommate, John followed him into the kitchen only to be stunned by the sight in front of him. It couldn't be... But it was, it clearly was.

"Is that- Sherlock! Is that a pair of eyes in our refrigerator?" He asked, shuffling closer to get a better look of the floating orbs in a glass container that held pineapple jam only last week.

"Wonderful deduction," he said, sarcasm dripping from his lips. "Although I'm disappointed by the time you took. You're a doctor after all." He stepped forward with his hands clasped behind him and tilted his head as he continued observing the foreign object.

"Why do you even have them? Whose are they?" John exclaimed with a sliver of curiosity that the detective noticed.

"Don't worry about that. I'm absolutely certain the owner is not looking for them," he sniggered. If John hadn't been as shocked by the body parts in his kitchen, he would've noticed a hint of his mischievous smile.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to throw us out," he sighed and walked away with resignation with the knowledge that he couldn't persuade Sherlock to throw away his specimen. He might have to move back into the poor excuse of an apartment he lived in before he discovered 221B through Mike.

"No, she needs money for a hip replacement surgery." His eyes lit up suddenly and he retrieved the container he'd been staring at from the fridge and walked off without shutting the door. Knowing clearly that he'd elicit no response from Sherlock, John walked back in to shut the door completely. Electricity bills were a pain.

"She told you that?" John blurted, offended that their landlady chose to share this information with Sherlock, a detective when she had a surgical intern for a tenant.

Sherlock replied, with his hands busying themselves opening the bottles he'd lined up on the table, "No, she didn't. I saw. If you used that expensive education of yours, you'd clearly see that she's in pain. Doesn't walk as much. Doesn't come upstairs to scold me. Has been visiting the doctor and trying a plethora of treatments that are clearly not working. The next thing that any good doctor would recommend is surgery."

"Oh yeah. She hasn't been bringing us tea for the past few days."

"She brings us tea?" He asked, finally looking up from a Petri dish.

"Where did you think it came from?" He shook his head in frustration and received a shrug from his roommate in return.

"Your shift begins in twenty minutes," he said, dodging his question. Why was John so bothered by the fact that he didn't know where their tea came from? Sherlock wished people questioned things that mattered rather than researching the origins of beverages that were clearly not poisoned.

At this, John sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time since he woke up and fetched his bag and coat before leaving his roommate to separate the layers of the eye with surgical tools.

This wasn't Sherlock's first time examining a human eyeball, of course. But, this was the first time he'd gotten a specific eyeball that he'd requested, thanks to Molly Hooper, the youngest pathologist who only needed a faux smile and a promise to bring them back to be coaxed into giving him parts of a body she was examining. She was smart in comparison to the idiots she worked with. She'd noticed the pattern in the eyes of all the seven corpses from his case and brought it to his attention. He was embarrassed for not noticing it before her, but then accepted his inadequacy and decided to keep her around.

He stored away his observations in the ever-expanding room in his mind palace dedicated to the case. It could've been his focus on the experiment, his frustration at not reaching anywhere close to solving the case, or his general ignorance about certain things, but Sherlock should've noticed the footsteps of a stranger just below his flat. His unperturbed continuation with his experiment indicated that he hadn't.


	4. Chapter 3

The two men and their laughter had come to a halt, leaving behind mischievous smiles that weren't far from those you could see on children who'd just pulled a prank. Once the door to 221 opened, Sherlock's lips dropped back into a grim line and his eyes displayed the turning of the cogs in his brain as he evaluated the new people in his building. John, however, was unsurprised by the contents of the room.

"Miss Granger," he said, diverting the woman's attention from her cardboard boxes. She forced a smile on her lips and greeted him back and they exchanged pleasantries as boring people did as social obligations required of them.

"We finally got someone for the basement, dear. I hope you don't mind," said Mrs. Hudson as she sipped some herbal tea that she claimed to help with her pain.

Four young people, around Sherlock's age, moved about with boxes packed and labeled like they were the work of his brother. The labels had perfect handwriting, as though they were measured while written. One could even mistake it for print. It surely belonged to the wild-haired brunette who was still conversing with John.

Student. Running away from something. Self-harm, from the way she desperately pulled at her sleeves of inadequate length to cover her scars, but it could be abuse, considering the way she studied her environment for escape routes and potential harm from the two new members in the room. Ah, PTSD!

Too many boxes labelled 'Books' and from the difficulty it caused the tall ginger man to carry it, the labels were true. She probably owned more hardcovers than paperbacks.

The ink stains on her fingers weren't from the pen she was using on her checklist. The way she held it indicated that she used quills regularly. So did the texture of the ink. Fingers of a pianist. Plays the piano and has quill ink on her fingers? From high society or just a pretentious fool like his older brother. No, definitely not like his brother. Her jumper was cheap like something she got off the rack and her hair was too messy for her to belong to that category of people.

Not Scottish, but had just come back from Scotland as her shoes indicated. Certain words she said had a bit of an accent, indicating she'd lived in Scotland before but not for long.

Wearing someone else's watch. Her grandmother's probably as they stopped making the model long back. They clashed with her outfit, so it's sentiment. Dead grandma. She wasn't used to wearing the watch and the strap marks on her wrist showed she'd been wearing a different watch until recently.

"Condolences about your grandmother, Miss Granger," he said, stepping towards her. He didn't need a flatmate. Mrs. Hudson could increase their rent if she wanted to, but he'd have no new people around. He hated new people and this one was about to run away screaming.

She looked up at him with surprise in her previously dead eyes that now raked down his body. Her gaze was unlike that of the women he usually encountered. No, she wasn't attracted to him. She was examining him like he examined corpses in a crime scene. It lasted barely for a second before she shook her head and cleared her throat.

"Mr. Holmes, I assume. Dr. Watson warned me about you so that I don't run away screaming," she said, stretching a hand for a handshake. He took it in his and make quick observations. It was small yet strong in his. Her grip suggested she was accustomed to wielding weapons. The build of her arms indicated she was a swordswoman or a fencer, it was quite difficult to say when it was concealed by her sleeves.

Interesting.

"Sherlock, please," he said, mustering a smile that she returned easily. It wasn't forced this time, he noticed.

Just as she was about to speak, a man wearing old fashioned rounded glasses entered. "Hermione, there was no space on the shelf so we just left the last one on the bed. You could buy a new..." he stopped after noticing the men in the room. The ginger following him stopped as she bumped into her...husband? Husband. New rings, dreamy eyes. Newly married and extremely gross about it in public.

"Guys, this is Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. They live in 221B," she said, pointing upstairs.

Girl ginger spoke up, "Ah, hello. I'm Ginny and this is Harry, my-"

"Husband," completed Sherlock. He smirked at how he successfully rendered her shocked and waited for the abuse that never came. He expected her to call him a weirdo or at least a freak like Donovan did. Maybe he'd have to step up his game to annoy her.

"Congratulations are in order," he said, lowering his eyes to look at Harry. "Not you, though," he said as he shifted them to Ginny, "You could've done better. Childhood  _sweethearts_ , I presume. He surely popped the question because he was too scared you'd find someone in your league."

"Sherlock!" John scolded. It was all he did these days. The wife looked angry, just like they all did and he waited for a slap. Instead, they all left for the basement flat, leaving Hermione behind.

"It's going to take more than that to drive me out of this flat, Sherlock," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"I wasn't even trying, Ms. Granger. I wanted your stupid friends and your dull ex-boyfriend out of my sight. Their presence is annoying."

"Your guesses are surprisingly good for a morphine addict-"

"He's not a-" John began when Sherlock fumes and exclaimed, "I don't guess!"

John realized that neither of them paid him attention as they continued to stare each other down. They seemed to be in their own impenetrable bubble of arrogance, John thought.

"Former morphine addict. Still can't let go of the nicotine, I see." She likely saw the bumps left on his sleeves by the patch he wore. She folded her arms over her chest and the movement revealed a portion of her arm if only for a fraction of a second, but Sherlock noticed the fresh scar. So it was self-harm! It could be a combination of that and abuse. The two weren't mutually exclusive.

"Maybe you should try some. Your tormented mind and your arm you keep slashing would certainly welcome it." In place of pain, guilt, or embarrassment he'd observed in his usual subjects, there was amusement. That was new. None of them enjoyed it. Even John, the only person who chose to stick with him, was slightly shaken by his deductions of his best-kept secrets. Maybe she enjoyed it because he was wrong? No, not possible. He was damn sure he had it right.

"Share your supply when your withdrawal symptoms get to you," she replied from behind her cool facade. Her harsh retaliation was a sign that she was affected by what he just said and was trying has to not let it show. It was a pathetic attempt.

For a moment, he was suspicious that she was sent by Mycroft and then dismissed the thought when even the Mycroft in his mind palace berated him for thinking he'd pick someone who looked so ordinary. Sherlock knew she wasn't, though. He wasn't his brother, he didn't brush off people just because they looked ordinary. He'd been right with John and he would be with this woman.

His reply was a lopsided smile that she returned before she suddenly turned it into a frown as though she'd realized something and then began apologizing. "I'm sorry if I crossed a line. I usually don't speak them out loud."

He scrunched his face at that. "Nonsense. Go ahead, tell me what you see," he encouraged. He wanted to know how accurate she could be.

"Sure?" She asked, raising an eyebrow and Sherlock almost laughed at her.

"Do I look unsure, Ms. Granger?" He mocked, keeping his eyes on hers yet circling her to show dominance. She didn't even flinch. Mischief flitted in her eyes before they deadpanned and he knew she was going to get to business.

"That could be a hickey on your neck, but there are no traces of more than one perfume or cologne on your person. So, you played the violin recently and you should be quite good if the years of practice is any indication. That in addition to your posture suggest you're a violinist. I suggest you do the Serratus Punches or Y lifts for the pain," she said proudly, looking up at him for approval. Insecure, he decided. Why else would she need approval from him when she was absolutely right?

"Impeccable dental hygiene that could happen only when you start early. Associated with a dentist. Not a boyfriend or a friend. One of your parents is a dentist and also took great care in reducing the size of your front teeth." Her lips sealed shut at that and she bit down on her bottom lip before letting it go. The action twisted his insides in an unfamiliar way. He took the feeling and stored it for future analysis.

"You don't eat or sleep as frequently as a regular person- you know how much and when you need them and act accordingly. The last thing you ingested was Shepherd's pie and quite recently, I believe. You haven't slept in two days, at least."

"Forty-two hours, Miss Granger. Close, but wrong," he said with satisfaction.

"That's a difference of just six-" she stopped her sentence when he took her right hand in his left. He noticed her go stiff for a fraction of a second before she returned to normal.

He ran his thumb over the ink marks, a smile gracing his lips as he confirmed his theory. He lifted her hand up to his face and took in a whiff of her. "You use quills on parchment more frequently that pen on paper. Strong preference for sheepskin, but it seems you also tolerate calf. Your fingers took a few seconds to adjust to pen and paper. Quill on parchment says you're rich, but jeans and jumper say you don't associate with it."

She scoffed, but continued," You're rude and condescending and you don't put any effort into controlling the behavior. You'd be kicked out of any normal job. Besides, they would bore an adrenaline junkie like you. Either self-employed or unemployed. You live in a good part of London and pay the rent so I'll eliminate the latter. What do you do?"

"Consulting detective. I invented the job," he said proudly. The few officers in Scotland Yard who entertained him for the sake of their cases always called him a PI, much to his chagrin.

"Of course," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Recently single. Broke up with boy ginger who's still in love with you," he punctuated with a scoff. From the look on her face, she wasn't privy to the fact. She doesn't bother to notice him while he's desperate for her to do so, like a puppy in need of attention.

"He's not-" she began to justify, but he cut off her weak defence with more deductions.

"Oh, come one! It's painfully obvious," he exclaimed and stepped back and looked at John and Mrs. Hudson who'd've surely noticed emotions. When he realized they hadn't, he threw his hands in the air dramatically. "He looks at you like a little boy looks at candy he can't have."

Before she could protest weakly, he used the advantage he had on her to bombard her with deductions, "You flinched when I touched you, immediately looked at the exit and your other hand reached for a gun in your pocket that you clearly don't have. You display so many symptoms. I recommend you have your PTSD treated."

Her trembling lips quickly curled upwards when she said, "Good, good. Some of them were spot on, but others were completely off track."

"Which one?" He demanded, turning back to her and getting uncomfortably close to her in the hopes that she'd divulge. Invading others' personal space usually made them spit out the truth.

" _One?_  More like several," she mocked confidently as she took a few steps back and away from him.

"No, no, no. Not possible-"

"Correct data, but incorrect inferences. I'm sure you can differentiate between the right and the wrong, Mister-I-invented-my-job," she challenged and sent a teasing smile his way before she turned in her place gracefully and walked to her new flat.

"She's just like you," remarked John as soon as the door of her apartment clicked shut behind her. Sherlock climbed the stairs to their apartment while John followed.

Sherlock scrunched his face at the unintelligent suggestion and scoffed, "Nowhere close to how good I am. She could only point out the most obvious facts about me. She's just above average."

"That's a compliment coming from you," said John and was dismissed with a wave of his hand. Sherlock took off his signature Belstaff and plopped on the couch unceremoniously and unconsciously assumed the position he always did while thinking. The facts he'd gathered just moments ago were being weighed against each other in his mind. Was she sent here deliberately or was it just a coincidence?

Mind palace John suggested that he shouldn't be arrogant in thinking he should be the only intelligent person around and any evidence stating otherwise was part of a large conspiracy and not mere coincidence. He directed his friend back into the room he'd assigned for John- related facts. Mycroft taunted that the universe was rarely lazy enough to produce coincidences. The facts he had on Hermione Granger, however, pointed to both sides.

This should be interesting.


End file.
